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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650009">How Now, Brown Cow?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWestCountry/pseuds/WitchOfTheWestCountry'>WitchOfTheWestCountry</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>League of Gentlemen (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bestiality, Murder, Other, both implied - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:00:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,499</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWestCountry/pseuds/WitchOfTheWestCountry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of the engagement of Hilary to the first Mrs Briss, and how he came to inherit the family business.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>How Now, Brown Cow?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Any sex or violence is implied and takes place behind the scenes.</p><p>This is all the fault of someone on Tumblr.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a pity that Hilary only remembered that cows couldn't walk downstairs until it was too late.</p><p><br/>Daisy had been sweet and receptive, accommodating him all afternoon in the dim cave of his bedroom, but her cooperation stopped at the top of the stairs. <br/>"Come on, girl," coaxed Hilary, trying hard not to let her hear the panic he was suppressing. "I know you want to stay but you can't. I'm sorry, love…" <br/>Daisy turned her head to him, warm brown eyes pleading, and he was almost undone by the tenderness in her gaze. They had developed a kind of telepathy during their forbidden relationship, one that broke all barriers of language, and he heard her sweet voice inside his head as clear as a bell, soft and low and unbearably gentle.<br/><em>"It's true that I'd rather stay, my love, but my hesitation is for reasons more practical than that. I struggle with walking down stairs because the incline and structure of stairs are not found in nature and are tailored for human leg proportions. The average slope of a staircase is 35 degrees, humans can walk down it without a second thought. I, on the other hand, have a much different weight distribution and bone structure than you, so it is difficult for me to move in the same manner. I'm afraid I may fall… "</em><br/>The idea of Daisy falling and harming herself made Hilary's breath turn to frozen mince in his throat. How could he have been such a brute? How could he have overlooked his beloved's limitations?<br/>"Forgive me, girl," he muttered, scuffing up the rough velvet of her flank with the palm of his hand. "I wasn't thinking."<br/>His situation was dire, but he didn't want Daisy to suffer for his ignorance. His father, Hilary Sr, had forbidden cows in the house since the death of his mother, and whilst he could keep Daisy's physical presence a secret there would be no mistaking the scent of hay and the sweet aroma of discreet bovine flatulence that emanated from his room.<br/>His father would know.<br/>"Go and lie down, my love," murmured Hilary, bestowing a brief kiss to the moist suede of her muzzle. <br/>Her tongue, muscular and sinewy, flicked briefly from the private enclosure of her mouth, absorbing the essence of his devotion. She understood. It was both a blessing and a curse, her intuition. <br/>"Go back to the bedroom, my love," he insisted. "I know what I have to do…." <br/>Daisy retreated back into the muggy room that she had recently vacated. The air there was thick with their love, the stench unmistakable, and he winced as he heard her settle onto the sagging springs of his aged mattress. There was no going back now. <br/>He permitted himself a glance into the looking glass at the top of the stairs: the burgeoning glow of his nose; the peach fuzz of his attempt at facial hair. He was woefully ill equipped for leadership by his family's standards, but he had little choice. He had to take control now, or his true love would bear the brunt of his indecision. <br/>Hilary took a deep breath and continued down to the parlour, there to await his father's return. </p><p>Hilary Sr's return was marked by the barking of the outside dogs, and the brief commotion that inevitably occurred thereafter. <br/>The old man invariably returned only when he was drunk, and his progress could be heard along the front hall as he knocked over the umbrella stand and crashed into the panelled walls. <br/>Hilary sat in his father's chair, shameless in his intent, almost fearless. To sit in his father's chair was blasphemy on some level, but he was surprised to find he did not care. <br/>Hilary Sr burst into the parlour. A haze of alcohol hung around him, a moist shroud of Yorkshire bitter and swigs of unadulterated whiskey. His eyes were bleary and unfocused for the most part, only sharpening when he saw where his son was sitting. <br/>"What's this?" he bellowed, reaching for the arm of the sofa to steady himself,his feet a drunken tangle beneath him. <br/>"I have slaughtered two dozen pigs this very day, and butchered Mr Stoat's sickly ewe on the way home. What have you done that gives you the right to sit there??" <br/>The old man may have been malodorous and incompetent, staggering where he stood with his britches half undone, but Hilary knew better than to underestimate him. He was powerful, his veins running brown with the earth of the countryside, his strength drawn from the countless victims he had slaughtered. <br/>"I have news, father," he told him simply. "I have chosen a bride."<br/>The old man's face creased in what could have been a smile, eyes crinkling amid the network of wrinkles already there.<br/>"A bride? Hermes take us all, that's fine news! And who is the lucky lady?" <br/>Hilary Sr fumbled in his pocket for the nest of cigars he stowed there, half toppling beneath the weight of beer and whiskey. <br/>Hilary smiled, watching the man from whose loins he had sprung, leeching some pity in that instant that would not be repeated. <br/>"Tis Daisy," he said. "A fine heifer from good stock…" <br/>Hilary Sr's face shed it's merry countenance then, his hand paused in the act of plucking his cigars free. <br/>"Daisy….?" he repeated, voice tremulous and uncertain. "Do I know this Daisy??"<br/>"Yes, father. A buxom young Jersey. Daughter of Jed Tinsel's star milker and prize bull."<br/>Feigning apathy, young Hilary plucked his pipe from the depths of his waistcoat. His hands shook in the filling of it, but he would not allow his father to see. <br/>"Nay…." said Hilary Sr, staggering back against the wall. "Daisy? You can't! I forbade such contact long ago!" <br/>"Yet here it is," said Hilary. "I've followed in your footsteps, father. There is no other option but that which you showed me." <br/>"But your mother…" <br/>Hilary's hand clenched around the bowl of his pipe. <br/>"Buttercup was not my mother. Do you think I'd be so daft as to not notice? Shame on you! She was a friesian! Do I have her eyes? Do I have her face? Nay! She was an interloper from the start, and Hermes only knows who my real mother was!"<br/>Hilary Sr turned his face away, brushing away the single tear that his son's wrath had wrought from him, and Hilary felt a stab of triumph that he had weakened the old man.<br/>Perhaps sensing this, Hilary Sr growled and turned back. <br/>"The shame is with you, boy," he retorted. "You are not worthy of Daisy's hoof in marriage. Your cuts are rough, and your whiskers barely half an inch long! Besides, she is too young still. I forbid it." <br/>Bristling at the insult to his professional prowess and his burgeoning mutton chops, Hilary gritted his teeth. <br/>"You can forbid me nothing," he said, voice low. "I defy you." <br/>The old man snorted, waved a dismissive hand.<br/>"You don't have the spunk, boy, and you know it. Get that whore out of here and clear out her stink. You'll marry her over my dead body."<br/>The incandescent rage that had bloomed in Hilary's chest at the scurrilous term his father applied to his beloved flared into a white heat for a moment before dying again, to be replaced with an ice cold determination that would have frozen the devil Himself.<br/>He smiled, and if the old man had been looking he would have shuddered at the diabolic gleam in his son's eye. <br/>"Over your dead body, eh?" Hilary murmured. "So be it, father. So. Be. It." </p><p>Daisy was waiting for him, her low bovine snores a sweet contrast to the hoarse screams from earlier. <br/>Hilary was bone weary, his shoulders aching and his hands sore, but he was proud of the work he had done. Rough cuts? He'd like to see the old man criticise his skills now. Especially considering the circumstances. <br/>Not wanting to wake his fiancé, Hilary peeled off his bloodstained clothes. His leather apron had mostly protected him from the splashes, but the old man had struggled, and his shirtsleeves were speckled with scarlet, his rolled up cuffs drenched. <br/>"I finally did it, love," he said softly into the gloom. "He shan't stop us now."<br/>Tenderly, he leaned over and touched the plastic tag pierced into the silky ear that lay on the pillow.<br/>"I told you I'd replace that with a gold ring one day, and that day has finally come."<br/>Smiling to himself, he slid into bed beside her, listening to the gurgle of one of her stomachs. He was thinking about crimson droplets clinging to ginger whiskers, and the stack of neatly wrapped parcels in the industrial sized fridge, waiting to be sold in the morning.<br/>It might have been his imagination, but as he drifted into a blissful slumber, he could almost feel his mutton chops flourishing… </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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